


Ides of March.

by werewolve



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Goes To Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen (The Witcher), M/M, Major Character Injury, Other, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, ides of March
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 19:34:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30060462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/werewolve/pseuds/werewolve
Summary: It does as it says in the title.When Jaskier bites off more than he can chew, and gets himself caught up in a rather targeted attack, Geralt can only be thankful for their position on the Continents maps.He would have been headed to the Keep anyway, now he only has more reason to hope others have already made it.(Written last year on this day, finally thought it was time to post it.)
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Triss Merigold, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72





	Ides of March.

The maiden kissed his lips sweetly, the bard gasping at the touch of her fingers within his hair as he sank further into bliss. His hands tied, he could do little but wrap his own fingers around the ropes with a grounding grip. And feel as slowly, but surely, and oh so painfully- a sharpened blade sank into his stomach.

\--------

Geralt hadn’t thought much of it when at a random point in the night the bard had disappeared from their table and sought company elsewhere. As soon as they’d entered the tavern he’d been eyeing the ladies smattered about the room. One such woman, a fair-haired bartender, had eyed him back with a look of recognition. Jaskier was of course, rather famous, so this too wasn’t a subject of much thought when it had happened. The witcher simply shooed his companion with a wave of his hand and returned to his pint, watching the tavern-goers with an innate curiosity for human behaviour late at night. 

Later, when Jaskier still hadn’t returned to the table, Geralt felt a small pit of worry in his stomach. Nothing much, the behaviour wasn’t unusual, it just came as an unexpected interruption to their plans to move on quickly the same night. Rolling his eyes and asking around, the witcher managed to uncover the fact that Jaskier had last been spotted leaving the bar with a lady fitting the description of the one Geralt had noted earlier. A few lewd and infrequently shameful jokes later and Geralt tired of the conversation, following the trail to where the poet supposedly was and booking a room for himself.

He supposed staying the night wouldn’t be too awful, at least Jaskier (of the both of them) was off having fun somewhere.

Entering the quaint inn, he took notice of a small hooded figure off towards the local temple. They were avoiding the lanterns and sticking to the backs of buildings, and Geralt drew himself closer to the door, turning up his nose to the idea of a thief. The air stank of something, he couldn’t make out exactly what quite yet, though there was a metallic tinge to it. 

‘Innkeeper?’

‘Master?’ A stout man turned on his heel at the desk, looking over to Geralt, ‘What can I do you for?

‘One room, preferably your cheapest. Only a night.’ Geralt was distracted, glancing behind him through the open door, trying to keep an eye on that figure, ‘Has there been any thefts in the area recently? Perhaps even in this inn?’

‘Thefts? No, no, not that I could tell ya about.’ The Innkeeper had a grave expression. ‘No time for criminals in these parts. Enough of your lot pass through for them to daren’t try to make a livin’ here.’ 

‘Hm.’ The witcher nodded, tossing a few coins onto the wood surface before the other man, and in return swiping the key he had laid out. ‘Thank you.’

‘All in a day's work, lad.’

Geralt shot the man a half-smile, lips curling only on one side of his face, and then set off for the stairs. They creaked beneath his feet, crooked and old, and without enough room for a proper foothold, and opened up onto a single small corridor of around 5 rooms. As he neared his own, the stench got worse, mingled with something else, something more recognisable- fear. 

He opened his door with the care to keep one hand on the hilt of his sword. If somebody here was scared, he had every right to be cautious of what could be waiting in his own room. 

It was dark, moonlight offering little help in illuminating the small and dusty living quarters. Geralt walked slowly, keeping an eye out as best he could thanks only to his mutations, and used the tip of his blade to push at sheets that had been laid over furniture. The room near looked abandoned, if not for small disturbances in the dust here and there, and if not for the shuffle he heard behind him as the door swung closed. 

He turned at lightning speed, fast enough only to point his sword at the intruder as a dagger hung in the air centimetres from his own throat. 

‘Who are you?’

‘What’s that to you, witcher?’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, certainly not looking to chat,’ The blade waved a little before him, ‘That’s for sure.’

‘So you’re going to kill me.’

‘Aw, looky here, the pup does have an ounce of intelligence in him after all.’ The intruder stepped closer, lowering her hood to reveal blonde curls that fell to her waist. She had on her face a grim smile and a smudge of what could have been either lipstick or blood. Geralt concluded it to be blood from the rotting smell she exuded. She stepped forward during his contemplation, and the blade at last kisses his skin, pulling ever so slightly to draw blood, ‘Aren’t you going to fight back?’

‘Should I? How much coin will you receive for a witcher’s head?’

‘Hm. Not as much as I’d receive for his whole body.’

Geralt let the girl get comfortable in her confidence. Allowed her to think she had the upper hand as he slowly backed away. She followed, spoke occasionally in a witty and unhurried manner, and Geralt quipped back long enough to cover the sound of his blade being strategically shoved under a sheet on a nearby chair they passed. Right before his back hit the wall, the witcher swung his arm up to grab the girl’s wrist and quickly span her to pull her arm behind her back, pressing his thumb into her wrist to force her to release her blade. 

Fighting back, she yelled at him and with her free hand slammed a smaller knife into his thigh, just barely missing and catching him long enough to create a cut as he sidestepped the blow. 

‘Where is Jaskier?’

‘That minstrel? I threaten your life and you think of him?’

Geralt pulled her arm a little tighter, grunting in protest to both the awkward stance and the pain of his injury, ‘Where is he?’

‘By now? Gone, most likely. In the very room beside this one.’ 

The girl grinned, and Geralt pulled the knife from her hand with his free one, pressing it flush to her own throat, ‘You will leave here. You will go and you will not return. If I even so much as catch a glimpse of your smile again I will not be as merciful as I have been today.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I tie you, deliver you to where I am headed next. Perhaps you yourself would like to become the mutant you so desire to hunt.’

‘You threaten me with the promise of Kaer Morhen.’

‘I would. If I was a worse man. Instead, I am going to let you go, and you are going to leave.’

The blonde woman wriggled in his grip, huffing and seeming to consider her options for a moment. And then fell near limp. She let out a final long breath, and stretched out her hand, ‘My blade?’ 

Geralt considered the request, then considered it to be an act of trust for her acceptance of his order, placing the blade into her hand and stepping away from her to kick the other across the room. The woman straightened up, pulled her hood over her head again, and reached for the other dagger on the floor. 

She turned to throw one more glance to Geralt, and with that wicked smile, bowed, ‘If I ever see those eyes of yours again, Master Geralt, I’ll have your guts strung on a clothesline and your teeth made into jewellery.’

‘I do not doubt you will, huntress.’ 

The girl laughed, and twirling the blade in her hand, resheathed it at her side, ‘Sorry about your boyfriend.’

‘He’s not my-’ Geralt huffed, ‘I can smell his fear, he is alive.’

‘Ah, so that’s why you spared me.’

‘No more conversation.’ The witcher took a step forward to find his sword and return it to its scabbard on his back, and the huntress threw up her hands in surrender. In a moment, she was gone, making her way down the stairs towards the entrance. 

Geralt groaned through gritted teeth, pressing his fingers to his leg and pulling them away bloody. Ignoring the injury, he pulled himself to move quickly, throwing his whole weight against the door to crash through into the other room. Jaskier lay on the floor, held up on one of his elbows as his other hand lay beneath him, pressed against his wound. 

From his lips, bloodied and blue, a hoarse and single word left, ‘Geralt.’

\--------

They arrived at Kaer Morhen swiftly. 

Geralt had carried Jaskier downstairs over his shoulder, passed a now twice shocked innkeeper, and out onto a produce cart. Attaching the wagon to Roach using also ‘borrowed’ equipment from the innkeeper himself, he swung to mount his horse and pressed her quickly into a canter, and then a gallop. 

The cart shook horribly over the rocky paths and cobbled roads, Jaskier only at ease due to a mixture of herbs Geralt had given to him prior to their leaving. Ahead of them a metal gate shook and groaned as it lowered, and in his desperation, the witcher took to yelling over the clatter of hooves. 

‘Stop! Stop! Don’t lower the gate! I am Geralt of Rivia, do not lower that gate!’

The witcher at the entrance to Kaer Morhen muttered to himself, a confused wave crashing down on the clearly infrequent visitor as he tried to make out the face of the white-haired man calling himself Geralt. In that confusion, at the very least, the gate stayed half-open, shuddering in place under its own weight. A more familiar witcher soon followed to see what the fuss was about. Noting the horse growing closer by the second, he lifted his hand off his blade and instead used it to gesture to his fellow Wolf, a look of both concern and stern leadership evident in his scarred features.

‘Do as he says, raise the gate!’ Eskel ran out to meet Geralt as he slowed roach to a trot over the stone bridge, waving a hand and eyeing the wagon behind him. ‘You’re covered in blood, Geralt, what fight have you been in?’

‘It is not mine,’ The witcher spoke, dismounting and patting Roach’s side, he threw his head to one side to gesture to his travel companion, ‘But his. Is there anybody here with medical expertise?’

‘Yes. Yes of course.’

Eskel gestured for the lad at the gate to come towards them, but Geralt reached out and lowered his hand back to his side. He nodded to his fellow witcher in a silent promise that he could handle Jaskier himself, and in doing so turned on a heel to throw his companion over his shoulder once more. With Eskel leading his way, the pair made for the door, and the remaining younger wolf nodded solemnly, making his way to bring Roach in so as to finish his job of closing the gate for the night. 

The older pair engaged in little conversation as they walked through Kaer Morhen’s hold towards what could be referred to as the infirmary. It had a strong smell to it of both incense and blood, and few beds that were all, as of current, thankfully empty. 

Geralt lowered Jaskier onto one of them, being careful to not wake him, and sat down on the one beside him, stretching out his legs with a soft whimper of a moan. Eskel called for Triss, who arrived swiftly, the room turning into what felt like a childhood reunion as Geralt came to his senses and began to speak. 

‘He was stabbed, I have no idea if the blade was poisoned or enchanted, only that his breathing is weak.’ His gaze was solely on Jaskier, his lips turned sour in his emotion, ‘Can you help him?’

‘You already know I can, Geralt. I’ve brought these men, and even you, back from near death. One stab wound is like a papercut to me.’ He raised his eyes to meet Triss’ and nodded, receiving a nod in return before she caught sight of the cut to his own leg. ‘And that.’

‘A scratch. I can handle it. Focus your attention on him,’ He moved his hand to cover the wound, and stood to demonstrate his lack of a need for attention, ‘Please.’

Eskel turned to him awfully quickly after that, his once folded arms falling down to his sides. Geralt turned himself to meet his half-surprised gaze and made a gesture once more with his head that wordlessly told Eskel to begin walking. The witcher obeyed, and with one last thankful stare in Triss’ direction, both of the men left the room to allow her to begin her work. 

They walked in silence for upwards of a few minutes, interrupted only by Eskel coughing into his closed fist. ‘Is that him then?’

Geralt gave only a hum of confirmation, with a slight movement of his head only existing in order to allow him to watch his own feet. Eskel returned the hum with one of his own. Either a shared trait between the two of them, or between all witchers. Or perhaps just a befitting response given the situation. Silence returned, neither longing to say much and yet both aching to talk. It had been too long since Geralt had last visited Kaer Morhen, Eskel knew he had tales to tell, and Eskel had ones of his own. 

Geralt broke the silence by asking about something entirely unrelated, and yet linking the two.

‘How is Cirilla?’

‘Doing well,’ Eskel nodded, tucking his thumbs into his belt, ‘Out with Yennefer again, so you won’t see her today.’

‘Good. Given the situation, that's for the best.’ 

‘And the situation?’ Eskel became the first willing to raise the question. 

‘What of it, Es?’ Geralt slipped into the nickname, comforted- he supposed- by the familiar surroundings, ‘We were nearby, we were attacked, Jaskier needed help.’

‘So he’s been travelling with you again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even after…?’ The question didn’t require a response, they both knew what it referenced. ‘He’s either incredibly stupid, or you are. Probably both, knowing you and what’ll you do for people you love.’

‘Don’t call it that.’

‘Ah, so you are stupid. Thank you for the confirmation, brother, absolutely glad to know you’ve gained zero intelligence or common sense since our last meeting. Vesemir will be thrilled to hear you’re still denying the uniqueness of your mutations.’

‘Unique or otherwise, Eskel, Jaskier at the very least deserves better.’

‘That I can agree with,’ Eskel bumped Geralt’s shoulder teasingly, ‘But he doesn’t seem to.’

‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He came back to you after all your absolute shit, Geralt. Do I really need to spell it out for you?’

Geralt shot his walking partner a glare, and their banter back and forth continued on until they reached the outer wall of the hold. 

\--------

By the time the sun was beginning to rise on the horizon, Triss was washing her fingertips of the red and blue of both blood and potions. Jaskier murmured softly in his induced sleep about clouds and flowers, and the sorceress smiled to herself. She went about tidying the room, listening as the loud chattering of the two older men grew closer once more, and noting specifically that it sounded far more cheerful than before. 

‘Triss,’ Eskel called as he rounded the door, ‘Please let my dear brother know that I am right in saying that green dragons are far nicer than red ones.’ 

‘You are both ridiculous.’

‘Hah!’ Geralt pointed out to Eskel in a mocking gesture, before furrowing his brows, ‘Wait…’

‘What have you been up to? I finished over an hour ago.’ The sorceress raised a brow in return, cocking her head at the two boys, ‘What is Eskel carrying?’

Eskel raised the large keg into the air, ‘Ale. I think we all deserve a drink tonight.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Waving her hand, Triss used her magic to drain the bloody water from the bowl (everything becomes less appetising when there's blood nearby), ‘The poet is sleeping to speed his recovery, but he should wake within the next hour. Let's leave some for him, he’ll need it more than any of us.’ 

The three, sprawled differently across a couple of the other beds, chatted for a while longer. Eskel took it upon himself to lay across a whole bed, whilst Triss and Geralt occupied the one opposite. They spoke of hunts and coin, of nights in small towns and of the affairs of Kaer Morhen. Eskel told tales of the newest returnees for the winter, in his words few in number but not in spirit, and Triss spoke of her recent joys in aiding both at the hold and in various courts. Geralt explained his time on the road, his time with Cirilla. He asked in detail how her training was going as of current and was asked where he’d take her next. The three mused of the world ahead of them, and in the background, Jaskier began to stir.

It was Eskel who caught this first, ears more attuned to the smaller noises Geralt so often missed when he became caught up in conversation. He turned to watch Jaskier roll his head from one side to the other, and then flicked his gaze to meet Triss’. They both shared a glance, and then swiftly made their goodbyes in the knowledge that this room was no longer their place. The last thing the bard needed was unfamiliar faces, as well as walls. 

‘It’s getting late, I should do my rounds in the walls. How about we leave you to rest?’

‘You should sleep when you can, stay here for as long as you need.’ Triss rested a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and squeezed it gently, Geralt lifting his own hand to cover hers with a grateful half-smile. 

The two old friends left quietly, leaving Geralt alone with the soft grunts of returning consciousness that left Jaskier’s lips. He wandered over to the bard’s bed with soft steps, speaking his name in an even softer way. Jaskier returned the word with one of his own, gentle and questioning, ‘Geralt?’

‘It’s me, I’m here.’ Jaskier tried to open his eyes, rolling his head towards the sound, and groaning in his stiff pain, ‘Don’t try to force yourself awake, you’ve been given strong medicine.’

‘What-’ Eyes opening finally, Jaskier attempted to focus his gaze, ‘Where are we?’

‘Kaer Morhen.’

‘Kaer Morhen? Oh, that’s nice.’

That brought a smile out of Geralt, who lowered himself to sit on the bed across from Jaskier once more. Jaskier reached out for him, and the witcher gladly took his hand. They fell into quiet for a long moment as the bard adjusted to his surroundings and Geralt simply tended to running a thumb over his hand. 

‘Have you ever thought about leaving, Jaskier?’

‘What? The town?’

‘Me. Have you ever thought about leaving, not turning back again?’

‘No.’

‘Why not? Why stay when I’ve treated you so awfully in the past?’

‘Because you always come back too. You were the one who found me.’

‘Not on purpose.’

‘Maybe not, but you could have chosen not to say anything,’ Jaskier turned his head back, met Geralt’s eyes, ‘Instead you apologised.’ 

‘And then near got you killed.’ Geralt broke the gaze by looking down, and in his frustration with himself tried to remove his hand from Jaskier’s. He failed, Jaskier only tightening his grip even in his half-lucid state.

The bard stayed silent for a while, taking up the touch Geralt had once given him by running his own thumb over the witcher’s scarred skin. They both stared at their joined hands, Geralt only looking up once to observe Jaskier’s expression and noting the bard’s closed eyes and shallow breaths. He might have been asleep, if not for the subtle movement over his hand continuing. 

Even despite their conversation, too much was left unspoken, and perhaps it always would be. Perhaps neither would ever really address what had happened, what was between them, what it was that formed the wall blocking one from the other. With Geralt’s bricks and Jaskier’s mortar, they remained at a firm but comfortable distance that both were happy to ignore.

Or at least it seemed that way. 

‘Come here.’ Jaskier said suddenly, his voice barely a whisper. 

If not for Geralt’s being a witcher, in fact, the statement was so quiet he would definitely have missed it. He decidedly pretended this was the case, ‘Hm?’

The bard rolled slightly onto his side, in a way that kept him comfortable but faced him more so in Geralt’s direction, ‘Come here. Lie down.’

Nobody could have missed that, not with the physical cue alongside the words. Geralt had only two options this time: outright reject Jaskier, or give in to his own accelerated heart rate and join the bard on the infirmary bed. He decided to choose the latter out of, as he put it, sympathy for the troubadour’s condition. He, and anybody else with half a mind, knew his reasoning was far more selfish than that. 

Climbing into the bed, he urged Jaskier to lie on his back again and lay on his side- a better position for the brunette’s wound. Jaskier kept a tight hold on Geralt’s hand, and Geralt no longer made any effort to prevent this. 

They fell asleep soon after.


End file.
